


Maybe It's Obvious

by tingodvons



Category: Chronicles of Narnia RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, high school theater au, super self indulgent writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tingodvons/pseuds/tingodvons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very simple thing turns incredibly not simple (alternatively known as how Will gives Skandar a blowjob during a live stage production)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's Obvious

Listen, Skandar’s a simple guy. He doesn’t think he really needs a lot of things in life: food, water, a place to sleep. It’s all simple stuff. He goes to school and gets good grades, he does acting sometimes for school productions, he hangs out with his friends, he keeps his parents updated on what they need to know, and he sleeps. It is a very simple routine that Skandar likes very _very_ much.

Until William Moseley does what he does best: fuck it up.

Skandar feels kind of guilty, ‘cause Will doesn’t fuck _everything_ up. He’s actually good at quite a few things. He’s a decent high school actor himself (nothing quite _leading role_ but not without his fair share of lines). He’s a good guy, at his core. He’s a friend to everyone, Skandar included. 

There are a few things that need to be understood right off the bat about the both of them: Will likes to flirt. Skandar does not. Will is extremely affection and loving. Skandar is—less so. It’s not like his parents didn’t give him physical contact as a kid, he just doesn’t have the capacity to do everything to the heightened extent that Will does. And Skandar is okay with that. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t _like_ Will: he _does_ , immensely so. He likes his laugh and the tone of voice he gets when he’s especially excited. He likes his eyes and the way he smiles. He likes the jokes he tells and the way he gets along with everyone. As previously stated, he likes Will _immensely._

Also, Skandar has a crush on him. But that’s nothing, just a passing thing, _really_. It’s just a passing crush that he’s had on him for two years. Passing. _Really_.

But that’s just a part of his life. He goes to school and gets good grades, he does acting in school productions, he hangs out with his friends—Will included, he sleeps, and he keeps his crush on William Moseley on the down-low. It’s a very simple routine. Until it isn’t. 

This year, the drama department’s fall play is a classic: _The Island of Doctor Moreau._ Classic stuff: fake blood, animal prosthetics, fake guns, a morally ambiguous message, the whole nine yards. Skandar gets the role of Moreau—a main character, the exact role he was gunning for. Spoilers: he dies. Fake blood and everything. It’s gonna be _awesome_. 

A senior named Ben Barnes plays Montgomery, who is Moreau’s assistant. And one of Skandar’s friends, Anna, is another main character, Prendick. Skandar is just really excited about the entire thing. The cast is prime, the set design looks like it’s gonna kick ass, and the hype of the entirety of the drama crew is just overwhelming. Skandar is just so excited.

Or he is until Will _fucks it up_. 

*****

“Hey, Skan!” Will calls, walking across the stage to Skandar. “What’s up?” he asks, slinging an arm around Skandar’s shoulders casually. 

“Just…uh, building,” Skandar says, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Like you do. On Stagecrew Saturdays.” He holds up the drill in his hand. Around them, people ignore them, attention on their own projects, chatting among themselves. But Skandar _swears_ he sees one of his favorite sophomores, Georgie, smiling. 

“Which project are you working on?” Will asked. 

Skandar takes a moment to look around the stage. Everyone is hunched over working on the various projects: Ben is under a flat he’s drilling together, and Anna is painting a scenery jungle background. A freshman, also named Will, is cutting material for the costumes they’re sewing. The entire stage is lit and behind them the workshop is alive with the buzz of saws and chatter.

“I’m, uh, working on the turn-y thing,” Skandar says, eloquent as usual. The “turn-y thing” is a circular platform on wheels, divided into three sections, used for quick setting change.

“Want some help on that?” Will asks. 

“Yeah! I mean, the more hands I can get to help me with this the better. Ben was helping but Andrew asked him to work on the flat for the jungle scenes.” Skandar finds himself grinning a lot more than he wants to, and Will laughs, ruffling Skandar’s slightly sweaty hair and moving towards the circular piece of wood that Skandar had painstakingly sawed. 

“What’s the first thing on the to-do list?” Will asks.

“I’m just drilling on the wheels now,” Skandar says, handing Will his drill. “I have the screws all set out, I’m gonna go grab another drill.”

As he starts to walk towards the shop, Will calls after him, “Yeah, cause you know I’m great at screwing things.”

Skandar blushes and looks at Will over his shoulder, who just winks at him.

****

The rest of their Stagecraft Saturday—Saturdays spent in the auditorium and workshop building the sets, making the costumes, and dicking around until the custodial staff tells their director they have to get out—goes smoothly. Pizza is ordered, jokes are shared, soda is spilled. 

More specifically, soda is spilled on Skandar. By Will.

“Will, you clutz,” Anna laughs, while Skandar makes a disgusted noise, trying to keep the sticky, soda stained part of his shirt off his chest. “Go get him cleaned up.” 

Will grins. “An accident, I swear!” For the countless time that day, Will slings his arm around Skandar’s shoulder (he had done it when they had finally finished drilling the wheels, when he had brought in the pizza, and when Skandar had found two more bottles of Pepsi in the fridge—not that Skandar was counting, or anything). 

“Where are we going?” Skandar asks, as Will leads him to the men’s dressing room.

“Getting you cleaned up,” he replies, simple, like it’s obvious. Maybe it is obvious. Maybe it would be more obvious if Skandar didn’t have all the times Will had physically embraced him memorized. 

By the time Skandar comes back around to his senses, Will’s already gotten them in the men’s dressing room and closed the door. And was tugging Skandar’s damp, stained, sticky shirt over his head.

“Fuck off—Will, what the hell?” Skandar practically yelps when he realizes what’s happening, taking a full step back. 

“I’m helping you out of your shirt,” Will says simply. Like it is obvious.

“I can undress _myself,_ ” Skandar snaps, furiously pulling his shirt over his head and feeling his cheeks burn in embarrassment. His shirt gets stuck on his ears for a moment, and Skandar eventually just rips it off violently.

And then they’re both just standing in the men’s dressing room. Skandar is shirtless. Will is not. Will is licking his lips. Will is staring at Skandar’s bare chest. And Skandar is…oddly flattered.

But also embarrassed.

He walks into the attached bathroom, flipping the lights on and going straight for the sink. He flips the faucet on, and runs his shirt under the cold water, soaking it. 

“Well, I was just going to suggest a change of clothes for you,” Will says from the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against it. “But whatever floats your boat.” He pauses. “Sinks your submarine.” Another pause. “Tickles your—“

“Oh, my god. Will, shut up,” Skandar snaps over his shoulder.

“Are you ticklish?” Will asks, nonchalant. 

Skandar turns the faucet off, wringing his shirt out, and turns to the older boy standing in the doorway. “Don’t you _dare_ think about it, William Moseley,” he threatens. 

Will grins, and shrugs.

Skandar brushes past him to get back into the men’s dressing room, and begins to pull the shirt back over his head, when Will asks, “Are you really gonna put that damp shirt back on?” 

Skandar, one arm already in the sleeve, looks at him. “Do you have a better idea, O Genius One?” 

Will laughs. “I mean, the mirror lights heat up pretty fast. If we turn them on and just hang your shirt there, it’ll be dry enough to wear in no time.” 

Skandar blinks at Will, who is standing with his hands in his pockets and looking flushed himself. “That’s…a strangely good idea. As long as we don’t burn down the place: you know how those things overheat.” 

“We’ll keep a close eye on it,” Will reassures him.

And that’s how they end up lounging in the men’s dressing room with the mirror lights on, and Skandar’s shirt hanging off two of them. They’re on the floor, across from each other, criss-cross-apple-sauce-style. Skandar is still shirtless, and Will is still very obviously eyeing him up. Again: flattering and embarrassing.

Will picks up on it, too.

“Do you want me to take my shirt off, too, so we’re even?” he asks, voice laced with humor. It makes Skandar kind of want to punch him. And also kiss him.

He makes a sound similar to a guffaw, but blushes despite himself. “Whatever you wanna do,” he says, trying to sound casual. 

“Oh, I know what I wanna do.” 

Skandar scoffs, looking down at the floor. “And what is it you wanna do?”

“Make out.” 

Will says it simply. Like it’s obvious. 

Maybe it is obvious.

Skandar’s head snaps up—which, one, ouch, he’s not built for that, and two, Will is leaning closer and it’s making Skandar _nervous_. Skandar leans in despite himself. He’s wanted to do this for _years,_ but this has gotta be too good to be true, things like this don’t just happen.

Apparently they do, though, because then they’re kissing.

It’s chaste. Simple. Like Will is asking for some sort of permission. Skandar’s eyes are closed—he’s not quite sure if Will’s are, but he’s not gonna find out.

Skandar leans forward more, balancing on his hands and trying to untangle his legs to he can get closer, and he feels Will smile against his lips, then open his mouth and his tongue is prodding at his lips and yep, _then_ they’re making out. 

He eventually just crawls into Will’s lap, tangling his fingers in Will’s messy blond hair while Will’s hands are literally _everywhere_ : they’re on Skandar’s hips, on his back, on his neck, cupping his face, in his hair, on his chest. And it’s all Skandar can do to hang on for dear life. 

Will seems to be preoccupied with counting Skandar’s teeth with his tongue, while Skandar just moans, grinding against him as his jeans (his _paint_ jeans, covered in paint from previous set buildings) are getting too tight. Will’s mouth slips from his at the friction, mouthing at the underside of Skandar’s jaw, and it’s the exact definition of hot and heavy when—

Hot and heavy. _Hot_. 

“Holy shit!” Skandar screeches— _manly_ , in a very manly way—, and jumps off of Will, wobbling to regain his balance. He smells _smoke_. 

Will just stares up at him from the floor, dazed.

“My shirt!” Skandar rushes and grabs his shirt from the very _very_ hot mirror lights, and manages to burn himself slightly in the process. He quickly drops the shirt onto the floor, and Will finally regains some sort of sense as he gets up and turns the mirror lights off. 

As if on cue, someone bangs on the door. “You two alright in there?” Ben’s voice asks through the door. “You’ve been in there for a bit, and we heard some shouting—“

“Fine!” Skandar’s voice cracks, and now that he isn’t fearing for the state of the building, he realizes he’s half hard in his jeans and his face is burning like his shirt is. “Just—sortin’ out some stuff!” 

“Okay,” Ben sounds skeptical. “But don’t be too long in there, we’re starting to clean up out here!” 

“Gotcha!” Will calls back. “Be out in a sec!” 

And then they both just have to face the reality of the situation. Or they _would_ , if Skandar didn’t grab his shirt and put it back on, burn marks and still too hot for wear, and practically sprints out of the boy’s dressing room. 

*****

That’s how William Moseley fucks up the fall play for Skandar. He makes it _unbearable_. Will is part of running crew, left wing, and Skandar can’t focus with him around. He keeps thinking about the feel of Will’s tongue in his mouth and his hands on his hips and his panting against his neck and—

It’s not like Skandar can’t handle it, because he _can_ , he’s an actor for Christ’s sake (okay, maybe just a high school one). 

It’s just that every single fucking person seems to have picked up on the fact that something happened between the two of them. Maybe it’s because Skandar blushes around Will more, maybe it’s the way Will flirts with everyone but Skandar now, maybe it’s the way _they both came out of the boy’s dressing room with boners._ Either way, people are picking up on it. And they’re _ruthlessly_ making fun of him for it. 

But that’s besides the point, because opening night hits them faster than a bird, a plane, a speeding bullet. And then he’s just _Moreau_. Wonderful, insane, genius Moreau. 

His death scene at the beginning of Act 2 goes flawlessly. The audience audibly gasps in some sort of tandem, the fake blood packet bursts at the perfect time, and before he knows it, he’s being dragged off stage to the left wing to get cleaned up. 

He’s in the boy’s dressing room—the scene of the crime—and Skandar looks like absolute _shit_. He’s sweaty, his make up is starting to clump on his face, and he’s close to being drenched in fake blood. He looks like shit, but he couldn’t care less. 

Or he wouldn’t, if the door didn’t open and then close and then William fucking Moseley, in all his black clothed, running crew glory, is in the boy’s dressing room with him. 

“Hey,” he says, casually.

“Um. Hey,” Skandar replies, trying to sound just as casual. 

Will takes the necessary steps across the dressing room closer to him, crowding Skandar against the corner of the counter. 

“What are, uh, what are you doing?” Skandar asks, meekly. 

“Finishing what I started,” Will says, simply, like it’s obvious.

Maybe it fucking is. 

And then they’re making out again, picking up right where they had left off previously three weeks earlier. It’s aggressive and messy, like they’re rushing. Which, in retrospect, they kind of are. Will fists Skandar’s shirt in his hands and Skandar just runs his hands everywhere, anywhere he can touch. He can feel the clock ticking in his head. 

It’s when Will is making a mark on Skandar’s neck and Skandar is, once again, hanging on for dear life, that he hears the fake gun go off on stage. It catches him by surprise, and he jumps slightly. 

Will laughs against his neck. “Scared?” he asks, quietly.

Skandar swats him lightly over the head. “Shush.” 

“Oh, I can, but can you?” 

Skandar is trying to process the possible pick-up line Will had just used when Will suddenly drops to his knees, and starts unbuckling Skandar’s belt and tugging down his costume pants and holy shit, holy _shit._

“Will, what are you doing!?” Skandar whispers furiously, blushing and completely exposed as Will pulls his briefs down. 

“Keepin’ quiet,” Will says with a wink, and then his mouth is on his cock.

Je-sus, Skandar has a hard time keeping quiet at the initial contact. He feels all the blood rush from his head down south, even more so than it had before, and his hips buck almost involuntarily. 

Will just pulls back a bit, hands steadying Skandar’s hips against the counter, and then just goes back at it full force, tongue circling the head and jeez Skandar is gonna lose it any fucking second, and he’s gonna be _so embarrassed_ when he does. 

Outside the dressing room, Skandar hears the remaining actors on stage begin to chant, and he realizes that the play is coming to an end soon. He thinks someone is gonna walk in on them, maybe Ben, or their director Andrew, or even worse _Georgie_ , and Skandar has to stick his fist in his mouth to stop any loud noises as Will bobs his head obscenely. He looks wonderful down there, lips around his dick and hair messy and eyes looking up at Skandar, an eyebrow cocked—

And then. Well. Then Skandar is just really embarrassed that he only seemed to last for a little longer than two minutes. 

Will doesn’t swallow. In fact, Skandar wonders why he was under some misconception that he would. He just pulls back and pumps Skandar’s cock while Skandar, white knuckled, tries not to make any sounds. It’s the best orgasm of his fucking life. 

Eventually, Will pulls tissues out of his back pocket and stands up, wiping the spunk off his face. He’s grinning. Skandar, breathless, is _not_ grinning. He’s completely baffled. He’s covered in sweat and fake blood and William Moseley just blew him in the boy’s dressing room during a live performance. And he came prepared. With _tissues_.

“Holy shit, did you plan this?” Skandar asks, baffled.

Will shrugs, still grinning. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> based off a true story from my drama department, hope you enjoyed my super self indulgent writing bc i can never truly leave narnia hell and apparently this now extends to rpf


End file.
